


New York City Rhapsody

by steelneena



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Child's Perspective, F/M, Gen, The Thompsons, pre "Broken", same OC family as always
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-07 06:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelneena/pseuds/steelneena
Summary: Neal lived a life too, before the curse was Broken.
Relationships: Baelfire | Neal Cassidy/Emma Swan, mentions of
Comments: 11
Kudos: 8





	1. In Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Partially beta'd.
> 
> Faceclaims if you're interested: 
> 
> The Thompsons
> 
> Rebecca: Gugu Mbatha-Raw
> 
> Devin: Omar Epps
> 
> Emmy: Amina El khatib

October 22, 2011

Something wasn’t right with Uncle Neal. Emmy may have been little – five was big, but Dillon, the next door neighbor, was eight and that was much,  _ much _ bigger – but of all the people in the whole wide world, (besides Mommy and Daddy, that was) she knew her Uncle Neal the very best of them all. When she’d started school just the month before, the teacher, Miss Aubrey, had asked them all to share one very special fact about themselves and Emmy’s had been that her very best friend in the world, her Uncle Neal, had given her her name. Which was actually Emma and not Emmy, but that was beside the point.

The point was that she’d hardly gone a single day in her entire memory without seeing her Uncle Neal and she  _ knew _ him. Unlike Mommy, Uncle Neal and Daddy were easy to read. They were both ‘emotional’ (that’s what Mommy called it) and when they got sad or happy or angry, it was hard for them to keep it hidden. That was Mommy’s super power. Unlike Daddy, she didn’t yell when the blue and white car didn’t come in first around the racetrack, and unlike Uncle Neal, she didn’t cry watching  _ Marley & Me. _

But usually, Uncle Neal was ‘a big silly, happy puppy’. He would swoop her up in his arms and tickle her until she cried ‘uncle’ and crawl around on the floor with her seated on his back, even though he complained that she was “getting  _ way _ too big for this”, while Daddy rolled his eyes, even though he was smiling, too. His nose wrinkled when she would ask him to watch a Disney movie, but he alw- no, he’d said no once. To Peter Pan. But otherwise, he’d always given in and watched anyways, especially when she said  _ pleeeeeease? _ really nicely. (His favourite was All Dogs Go to Heaven, he’d say, and then she’d giggle and tell him that  _ wasn’t _ a Disney movie, Uncle Neal!) He told funny jokes that she only got  _ some _ of the time, but she  _ always _ laughed anyways, and he always, always,  _ always _ gave her a kiss on the nose goodnight and called her teddy bear or love-bug. He’d even had Mommy teach him how to do her hair, for when neither she nor Daddy could be there in the morning to take care of it; he always handled her tight ringlets with the utmost care, and he could braid – as her Mommy called it – ‘like nobody’s business’.

And, most of all, he always held her hand when he walked her to school on Thursdays and to half-day daycare on Saturdays at the Boy’s and Girl’s club, because he worked there on Saturdays so they got to be there together! 

It was a Saturday. He’d picked her up on time, like always, gave her Mommy a friendly kiss on the cheek as she’d headed out to the car and swung her down from the steps, but he didn’t laugh, and his eyes didn’t twinkle, and his smile didn’t show his teeth, like usual.

“Uncle Neal?”

“Yeah love-bug?” he asked, looking down at her while they waited for the stoplight to change. Sometimes, when they had to wait, they counted the second together, singing the numbers to the tune of a song. Not that day. “What’s up?”

“Why’re you sad today?”

Uncle Neal did a double take, which was almost funny at first, but then his brows drew in seriously. “What makes you think I’m sad, Emmy?”

“You’re not smilin’” she said simply, shrugging. It wasn’t like he was pretending to be happy or anything. And Uncle Neal was  _ pretty _ good at playing pretend. “You’re usually smilin’. But not t’day.”

His lips twitched up on one side. “Yeah, I s’pose I’m not really in the mood to smile a lot today, kiddo. That’s all.”

“’m sorry, Uncle Neal,” Emmy replied, squeezing his hand. It was bigger than hers by a lot, and warm, but a little rough, like wearing her daddy’s wool mittens from Gramma. “I was happy today, but since you’re not, I don’t wanna be anymore.”

“Hey, hey, Emmy, no.” Uncle Neal shook his head, his eyes big and round, just like a puppy. “Don’t say that, love bug. That’s really sweet of you, but I’m glad that you’re a happy-go-lucky girl, and I don’t want you to be sad just because I’m not having the best day.”

“Oh.” Emmy looked down at her sneakers, kicking them against the asphalt as they lit up, blinking blue and red. They were new. Last week she’d gone with Daddy to get them, and she remembered the way Uncle Neal had smiled that day when she’d come home from the store in them, ready to show off. “Why’re you sad, Uncle Neal?”

They were rounding the corner when her Uncle stopped abruptly, and then stepped them aside, out of the way of the oncoming foot traffic, which wasn’t thick, but not unmanageable. Mommy’d told her they were like a river, and you had to be careful, or they’d catch you right up and whisk you away, so she let Uncle Neal move her up against the muted red brick of the building beside them. Taking her by the shoulders, he dropped to a knee before her.

“Sometimes, Emmy…” he stopped, bit his lip and then started again. They’d get chapped like that. She didn’t like it when his kisses were chapped. Or when he and daddy had too much stubble. “Do you remember last year, when Grammy passed away?”

Solemnly, Emmy nodded.

“And how sad you were?”

“Yeah.” She remembered how much her Mommy had cried then, even if she didn’t at movies.

“Well, when it gets to be that time again this year, like the anniversary? You know? If you ask your Mommy and Daddy, I’m sure you’d find that they’re pretty sad, because it’ll be on their minds again, close to Christmas as it was. And when Grammy’s birthday rolls around, they’ll be sad then too. This is…sort of like that, Emmy.”

Suddenly, her stomach felt like the last time she’d had BBQ. Emmy didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Someone’s died?” she asked, very, very quietly.

“No, no,” he reassured, quickly, patting her shoulders in rapid succession. “It’s not that, just…” Uncle Neal shook his head and sighed again. “I’m missing someone a lot today. Someone really super special. It’s her birthday today and I’m just thinking about her.”

“Can’tcha call her?” Emmy asked, confused. “When I miss Gramps, Mommy puts him on the phone.”

Her Uncle Neal’s eyes were sad. “I wish it were that simple, love-bug. Come on. Let’s walk and talk. I still gotta getcha to day-care.”

“And you gotta get to work.”

“Yep.”

He stood, took her hand once more, and they started off again. For a while, neither of them said anything. It was weird. She’d never really had nothing to talk to Uncle Neal about before. There’d never been a time when they were together that they weren’t talking, except during movies –  _ well… _ \- and if he fell asleep. (He fell asleep a lot, but she did too, sometimes, like at Christmas). The seconds dragged on and on. Emmy kept looking up at her Uncle, who still looked a little bit like Peyton did when he was trying really hard to get the pick up stick without moving all the others. Eventually, though he kept looking straight ahead, Uncle Neal spoke.

“Sometimes, Emmy, people do things that they’re not proud of. I’ve done a lot of things that I wish I hadn’t.”

“Like when I took the head off of Dillon’s GI Joe and flushed it down the toilet and Mommy said that it was bad?”

Miraculously, her Uncle laughed. “Yeah, love-bug. Like that. So, I did something, a long time ago that I wish I hadn’t. You know, I’d do just about anything to take back what I did.”

“Anything?” Wide eyed, Emmy looked up at him. Anything was  _ a lot _ of things.

“Anything,” he repeated, and she knew he really meant it.

“Like what?”

For a minute, her Uncle’s eyes shown with the tell tale sheen that indicated he was near tears. She’d seen it just last week when they watched Milo and Otis. “Well, love-bug. If I hadn’t done what I’d did, I’d probably never have met your parents. Or you.”

Emmy let her jaw drop. “You’d give me up?”

“What I did was really bad, Emmy. Really bad. But you know I love you to the moon and back, and I would never want to lose you. Ever.” His voice was clipped, like he was mad, but not quite the same. Something else. Something Emmy didn’t have a word for, but she knew that she believed him. “You and your Mom and Dad, you’re all I’ve really got, Emmy.”

It felt like, if she let go of his hand, he’d disappear, so Emmy squeezed it more tightly, walking closer beside him, and tried not to think about what her Uncle had said.

“You mean you don’t have a mommy? Or a daddy?”

“Not anymore.”

She sniffed, starting to feel her throat tighten as she thought about life without her parents. “I’m sorry, Uncle Neal.”

“It’s okay, Emmy.”

It was quiet for a while. They were nearing the Boys and Girls club now, and Emmy could see a few of her other friends waving to her, but she ignored them. “Uncle Neal, if you did somthin’ bad, shouldn’t you ‘pologize?”

“Probably,” he admitted.

Emmy’s face scrunched. “I don’ get it. So why don’tcha just call her?”

“Well, Emmy, it’s probably smarter to apologize right away when you do something bad, and it’s been, well…you’re five, and it’s been just about twice that – that’s like eleven – eleven whole years – since I did what I did. That’s even older than  _ Dillon _ .”

“Woah! That’s a real, real long time ago.” Emmy tried to imagine what it would be like. The last time Mommy made her apologize it was for when she’d accidentally broken Missus Arnholdt’s Pooh Bear statue. She hadn’t wanted to do it. Missus Arnholdt was already scary enough, but Uncle Neal couldn’t watch her  _ all _ the time, Daddy said, and it was only scarier knowing that she’d done something wrong and then she had to  _ face _ her and tell her so to her red, angry face.

She shuddered

“Yeah, it sure is.” Uncle Neal ran a hand through his hair. “So, I feel like, even if I did know how to get ahold of her, if I tried to call and apologize now, it’d just hurt her more than it would help.”

“It would be scary,” she admitted, but Emmy screwed up her face anyways. She’d felt better after apologizing, no matter how scary it was. “But why?” she asked. “Mommy says always apologize.  _ Always _ .”

“I know. She’s right, you should. Always. That’s just another bad thing I did.”

Lip starting to wobble, Emmy sucked in a breath. “I don’t like it when you do that!”

“What?”

“I don’t like when you say you’re bad. You’re not bad, Uncle Neal! You’re my Uncle! You’re not bad. Don’t say you’re bad.” He was the  _ best _ . He gave the best hugs, and had the best Halloween costume ideas and made the best blueberry pancakes and told the best jokes and always knew what to say when-

“Hey, hey, hey, Emmy, love-bug-“ Uncle Neal knelt down again in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling her into his embrace, his large hands falling solidly onto her Lisa Frank backpack. “Don’t cry sweetie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, hey. It’s okay.”

“P-p-please don’” Emmy’s voice wobbled too, her throat so thick it was hard to breathe.

“I won’t. I’m sorry.” He was patting her back gently, cradling her close, and put a hand to her hair, fingers in her curls. “I’m just really sad today and that makes it easy to be down on myself. I didn’t mean to upset you, Emmy. Do you forgive me?”

Pulling away, she sniffled. “Yeah. I love you, Uncle Neal. ‘ll always f’rgive you. I just don’ wantcha to be sad anymore.”

“Well, I know a way that you can help.”

“Really?”

“Yep. A kiss. Plant one on me, kiddo.” Uncle Neal tapped his cheek, the twinkle back in his eyes, though his smile was flickering and inconsistent, like a light bulb on the verge of going out. Leaning in, Emmy pressed a kiss to the place where his finger had been, and threw her arms around his neck, hugging tightly.

“What’re ya gonna do, Uncle Neal?” she ask, voice muffled from where she’d stuck her face into his shoulder, relishing his warm embrace. “Are you gonna ‘pologize?”

“Like I said, love-bug, it’s complicated. Sometimes things just aren’t that easy. But you know what I am going to do?” She shook her head without breaking the hug, without looking up; his embrace was safe and comfortable. “After work, after I drop you at home with your mom and dad, I’m going to go get a hot chocolate with cinnamon, because she liked it that way, and I’m going to go get her favourite food for dinner, and maybe I’ll read her favourite book. And then I’m going to sit down and write her a letter, tell her everything I wish I could, just like that. How’s that sound? Acceptable?”

After a moment to mull it over, Emmy nodded and finally pulled back. Uncle Neal was never unreasonable. “Sounds good.”

He stood again, taking her hand once more as they continued towards the building, their clasped hands swinging back and forth between them, jovially.

“Ya know, Mommy also says that sometimes it helps to tell someone ‘bout it, too,” she added after a while, matter of fact like, thinking about the last time she’d had a nightmare. At least, it seemed like it would apply. 

Uncle Neal guffawed, the first genuine smile on his face that morning drawing wide and sunny over his features. “Well, I told you, didn’t I?” he said after he’d recovered. “But you want to know something more, I guess, huh?”

“Yep! Somethin’ ‘bout  _ her _ .”

“Alright.”

They were nearly to the door. Carley was calling to her, waving exuberantly, but Emmy just waited with bated breath to hear what next her Uncle would say.

“Well, Emmy, you know the story about how I gave you your name, right?”

“Duh!” It was only her  _ favourite _ story from her babyhood, after all.

“Well,” he continued, pensive. “I liked  _ her _ so much. She was the light in my life, she was like a sunny day.” Suddenly, his voice was soft, gentle, like a cloud, but then, he trailed away, frowning. “And since I- since I had to go away, since I didn’t see her anymore, the world had been pretty grey.”

Scrunching her nose, Emmy frowned. “What’s that gotta do with my name?” 

“Hold your horses, we’ll get there. Now, the world was grey. Like it was raining all the time. And then, you were born, and the sun came out again for me. So when your parents couldn’t agree on anything, I said you looked like an Emma, because you reminded me of her with your sunny smile and big, wide eyes. I named you after the kindest, most whip smart person I know and maybe ever will. And I knew I’d love you just as much as I love her.”

“You still love her!?” Emmy asked with a half excitable whine, imagining the woman that could _possibly_ be all the things that Uncle Neal claimed. She had to be a...a...a princess! After all, Uncle Neal _was_ brave and handsome enough to be a prince, so he deserved a princess. And Daddy called _her_ _his_ princess, and if the lady Uncle Neal reminded her of was like _her_, well...It just all made some sort of sense. “So you _are_ gonna try and find her, right? You _havta, _Uncle Neal! You _have to!_”

The same sad smile grew over his features again. “One thing at a time, love-bug. Right now, I’ve got to get you to Ms. Leaire’s room and then I’ve got to get to work, too.” He looked down at her. “You know, you can eat lunch with your friends, right? You don’t have to eat with me.” 

“I know,” Emmy replied, matter of factly. “I like to, ‘s all. You’ll just be in your office, right?”

“And if I’m not, you can always ask Deni-” he caught himself on the first name, like always, and Emmy snickered. “Mrs. Cohl at the desk if I’m in another room helping out, okay? But I’m not going off campus today, for sure.” 

“Okay, good!” Emmy hugged him round the middle, high as she could reach, and she felt Uncle Neal’s hands at her hair again, patting gently. “I love you, Uncle Neal!” 

“Love you too, love-bug, but Ms. Leaire’s going to have my butt if I don’t get you in there on time today, okay?” he said with a laugh, prying her arms off of him. “Let’s go, kiddo.” 

“Okay!” Emmy grabbed for his hand again and started off at a run, trying her hardest to tug him along after her, though it was like pulling a bunch of rocks around, that was until he got to picture and started running up from behind her, loosing her hand and grabbing her up with a roar. Letting loose a squeal, Emmy put her arms out - like flying! - as he rushed, head-long, through the door, which was being held open by sour-pussed Mr. Kleiberman. (Emmy knew that his eyes always twinkled though, even though he looked like he was sucking on lemons all the time. Yuck!)

“There.” Uncle Neal said, finally, as he set her down in front of the door, sagging against its frame as if he were all tuckered out. “Got her here in time, Bennie.” 

Ms. Leaire sighed and huffed, but Emmy could see that she was smiling. “Get on in here you!” She called with a singsong tone to Emmy. “Kiss your Uncle goodbye til lunchtime.” 

Uncle Neal slid down the doorway until he was crouched and tapped his cheek, and Emmy gave it a prim kiss, wrinkling her nose for effect. “You’re scratchy today, Uncle Neal.” 

“Yeah yeah, go play, Emmy. See you later.” 

Emmy did as he said, her backpack bouncing against her back as she ran to Carley who was already knee deep in a lego house, but that didn’t stop her from hearing Ms. Leaire tell her Uncle Neal to ‘get his skinny butt to work’. Giggling, Emmy slid onto the carpet next to her friend. 

“Can we build a castle today? And fill it with really cool, awesome knights and super neat princesses?” She asked as the pushed the bag off, carelessly to the floor. 

“I wanna build a big house first, but then we can, sure.” Carley pushed a tub of bricks over her way. “Help me find the green ones first. I have’ta make the grass.” 

“Mhmm.” Emmy replied, absently. Ever the dutiful friend, she scoured the tub for all the green blocks she could, but in her day dream, there was only one thing she was thinking of: the beautiful sunshine princess who had captured her Uncle’s heart and locked it away like the most best treasure in the whole world ever. 

She was special, Emmy concluded after a while, when Carley asked for some red bricks instead. Special and brave too, because Uncle Neal told her a lot that he admired when she was being really brave, like when she told him about the shot she’d got, or the time she had her ears pierced. So she had to be brave. And kind, of course, he said she was kind. And smart, too. 

Whoever she was, she had to be the best most wonderful princess out there. 

She just  _ had _ to be. 


	2. In Bohemian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash to the Past - How Neal made it to New York

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was dismayed when I first started writing this to discover that there are no long term renfaires in Canada, like there are here in the States. Since that would have shot this entire story in the foot, I said fuck it and wrote it anyways.

Summer 2001

Even though Judith saw him, briefly, the day prior, it was only the next day that she noted him with any particular degree of attention. It was at a distance – surprising that she noticed him twice at all, considering the particular volume to which the Renaissance Faire was prone. Perhaps it was because seeing a person who didn’t work there, on two consecutive days was, well, rather rare. Most Faire goers were passers-by, without any grand investment in the hobby. The other half would maybe be seen across two consecutive weekends, but  _ not _ two consecutive days. A full Faire experience left even the hardy ‘old hats’ tired and sore, and much lighter of pocket. That day in particular, it was pretty hot out, the kind of unbearable where a lot of the young men didn’t even bother with shirts, so it wasn’t too surprising that he wasn’t dressed up in a costume; even many of the most stalwart folks forwent the accessories when the heat got to be ridiculous, except for the fellow who liked to walk around the faire in a full suit of Gondorian armor.

Yet, there he was, despite the heat, munching on an apple with distinct relish. 

She heard him because of the apple. The shortest of lulls in the cacophony of the Faire grounds fell over the area near her stall just as he bit into the crisp fruit, drawing her attention.

Aside from his proclivity to invite the pain of  _ two _ days under the blazing hot summer sun without any real recourse, there was little about him that was remarkable. He wasn’t too tall, maybe even a bit on the stocky side, but in a way that was quite attractive in a youth, much like what Judith knew her daughter liked in a few of the boys at her school. The dark, tousled hair curled around his ears and neck, and his eyes (even from a distance, she could tell) were equally dark. There was something about him; the set of his shoulders, or the way that he walked. Just  _ something _ . He wasn’t holding a bag, for one, like many others, and there was no lanyard dangling from his pocket, not even a pair of sunglasses perched on his head.

In fact of matter, he looked fairly lost, that was, until he saw her wheel. 

He’d been standing in place dumbly, looking around with a peculiar expression for some while, as though he were in a completely different place in time – the illusion of which, while strong at the Faire, had never been quite that good. But, when he finally turned in her direction, it was as though his whole world’s focus narrowed to the passage of her hands over the fibre. Rich, brown eyes lit with a curious expression as he walked, as though compelled towards her stall, gaze rigidly affixed where her hands worked tirelessly at the spinning. He tracked their pace easily, eyes darting down to the pedal where her foot rested, and then back up again, silent the whole while. Upon entering the booth, he took another bite of the apple, a thoughtful, appraising bite as he surveyed her setup, more so than her wares. Keeping her focus on the task at hand, she watched him only from the peripherals, almost afraid of scaring him off if she made it known that she’d noticed him. There weren’t many young men of his age who had much of an interest in old fashioned spinning and weaving, so it surprised her a bit that he was watching her progress so carefully. No little wrinkle of confusion furrowed his brow, only a set mouth and a sharp eye.

She continued to spin, and he continued to take bites of his apple, and not a word was spoken. A few minutes passed, and he shifted in place, and she thought for a moment he might speak, but then a customer came by. Giving only half her attention away, Judith absently answered the questions and made a sale, all the while keeping him just in sight, curious to see what he’d do.

Money changed hands, and she had to look away to make change, but when she stood straight again, handing the bills over to the woman, she noticed that he’d laid a hand on the wheel, rubbing the smoothly worn wood, and trailing his fingers over the draping expanse of fibre as if lost in tracing the twisting, twining threads.

“Would you like to try?” she asked, confidence bolstered a bit by his apparent interest.

His hands flew back as he startled, taken off guard. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have - wait, what?” Bewildered, he stared at her, trying to take in the offer and failing, almost dazed, as if only truly seeing her for the first time in that moment, as if he expected to see someone else behind the wheel altogether. 

“I asked if you’d like to try. I’m happy to teach anyone who is interested. That’s part of my setup here, you see.”

“Oh.” He blinked owlishly. Had it been too much? Had she pushed too hard, too fast? At his side, his fingers twitched. “I already know how. Well, I know how on one without a pedal, but it doesn’t look that much different than what I’m used to.”

It was Judith’s turn to blink in surprise. “Do you?” she said, eventually returning to her senses. “Even better. Well, why don’t you just set your apple on that table over there and you can go ahead and give it a shot.”

A wry half-grin spread over his features and he took another bite before setting it down where she’d indicated and walking into position before the wheel. Almost warily, he let his hand rest on it again.

“I haven’t done this is a long, long time,” he said. And yet, with ease, his hands found the proper position and he took a moment to reassess how it ought be done with the pedal incorporated. In moments, he was spinning beautifully, the fibres twisting between his fingers with the practiced ease of someone who had undoubtedly been taught by a master, who has spent hours upon hours repeating those same, gentle motions. Never did the fibre leave his fingers too thick or too thin, and his pace was even, rapid but unhurried in the way that some were once they’d gotten the hang of it all.

She wondered what it must have been like for the young man as a child, looking up at what had undoubtedly been a walking wheel. Idly, she lifted a skein she’d worked up earlier in the day, settling it into the bowl so she could roll it later into a more manageable ball. Setting it down, Judith rounded him in anticipation of the smile on his face, but found not even a look of concentration in its place but rather a dark, contemplative look.

Before she could question it, he spoke.

“It’s pretty much like I remember.” His voice was soft and low, thick with some unknown emotion. “The principle is the same. It’s a lot easier, too,” he added after a moment, almost with surprise. “The pedal helps. The yarn comes out a lot more even this way.” Abruptly, he looked up. “You do this for a hobby or for a living?”

The question threw Judith off, and the grave expression had already been banished from his face. “Hobby, of a sort. Living, of a sort. I do a lot of different things.”

Nodding seriously, he replied, “I get that. ‘specially in a world like this. Not really a thing you can make a living at anymore, I bet.”

It was her turn to bear a look of confusion. “No, not really.” She paused, waiting, but he only kept spinning, showing no sign of slowing up. “I’m Judith,” she tested the water. “And you are…?”

“Neal.”

“Nice to meet you Neal.” A man of few words, it seemed, he only inclined his head a bit, focused entirely on his work. And it was, truly, fine work. It would have been a pity to stop him, so she simply picked up her weaving and set to work in the meantime, looking up from time to time to watch him. “So, who was it then? Mother? Grandmother? Aunt?”

“No.” There was a pause, and she noticed in that moment that the familiar creak of the wheel had stopped. When she looked up, he was standing there, hands at his sides, staring into the distance. “It was my Pops.” His words were stilted. Disjointed. Fragments of ideas no doubt complete in the memories that must have been flitting through his mind as he spun. “We raised sheep.” 

Touchy subject.

“Well,” Judith punctuated her statement with a pause, fiddling for a moment with the yarn. “You go ahead and spin for as long as you like. I’m going to work on this weaving here for a bit anyways.”

An absent nod was all that answered her, followed a moment later by a strangely quiet ‘Yes’m’, more of an afterthought to the realization that she might not have been looking at him, Judith thought, than a nicety. Either way, she didn’t respond, letting his attention be absorbed completely by the task at hand. 

They worked in silence for a while. There was nothing quite so calming as listening to the creaking of the wheel and the soft rush of the yarn in her hands; long ago, Judith had discovered the simple camaraderie of working beside another person, no expectation of conversation, no deadline, no guidelines. Just pure creation. It was very freeing, and it was the sort of pastime that she’d discovered was necessary to balance out the hectic nature of her day to day life during the school year, when she was working fulltime in the classroom. 

The summer’s small reprieves were the infinite joys of teacherhood. 

After a while, she paused with the weaving to get another skein, taking quick glances at the young man who was still earnestly at work. Regardless, Judith didn’t break the silence until the wheel’s rhythmic creaking ceased, and she heard the shifting of the young man on the stool. 

“I’ve run out of wool.” 

“Hmm.” She looked over her shoulder, pretending not to have noticed. “So I see.” She went over to the yarn, looking at it all spooled up, firbres twisted neatly into something workable. “Would you like to try your hand at weaving for a bit then? Or is that something else you already know how to do?” When he turned, there was the ghost of a smile on his face and she was glad for the tactic she’d taken. “Well, come on then. This table runner won’t weave itself.”

“It’s a nice loom. A lot different than what I’m used to. The principle is the same here too, though, right?” he asked, and she could hear the purposeful humour in his tone as he imitated his earlier remarks about the wheel.

Relieved, she grinned. “Oh, don’t give me that. Show me what you’ve got, then.”

Rakishly smirking, Neal took the shuttle from her and started to it. She didn’t offer any advice on how to set about it, more curious than anything to see if he would be able to figure it out for himself without difficulty, or if he would ask for help. A part of her was reminded intensely of a student she’d had who lived with his grandparents, and had taken a particular shine to wood carving as a result; at first, she’d thought him shy, but it quickly became apparent that he had just been feeling out the situation. So much seemed to be the case with Neal. Though he had to undo the first few segments after realizing he’d begun the pattern of stitches wrong, the shuttle began to move between the yarn threading with rapid ease. Seemingly humbled and in better spirits, she let him to it and went back to the wheel herself.

“This is pretty midsized,” he said after a white. “Not bad, but the one you brought here had to be portable, I guess. Do you have any bigger ones? Like, a full tapestry loom?” His tone was surprisingly conversational, and Judith felt herself relaxing into the common pattern: get to know student, find a common interest with student, discuss. 

“I have all sorts of sizes, young man,” she replied, a little mischievously, pausing at the wheel to rifle through the wicker basket of skeins at her feet. “Here.” She tossed him one. “Have a little colour variety.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s nice to find a young man like you who knows how to do these sorts of things,” Judith continued, throwing the words over her shoulder. “Not many young people, regardless of gender, seem to have even the slightest interest in learning. But, well, I suppose there’s an exception to every rule.”

“Truer words,” he responded after a moment. “I haven’t even seen anyone doing either of these things since…since I left home.”

The words landed and Judith felt her concern grow. He couldn’t be too much older than eighteen, though it always did get hard to tell with the older boys, but she’d worked at the high school long enough to feel fairly confident at her guesstimates. Little more than a child, whose cheeks should have still been full and round, but were a little too lean for her comfort. And, if there was one thing she knew well, it was that though eighteen a legal adult made, it did not a practical adult ensure. And the way he talked…

“A long time, then?” she pressed, just the slightest.

She heard him huff. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“I see. Well. Regardless of the time passed, you haven’t lost your touch.”

For a while there was only silent camaraderie between them as they worked, Judith occasionally stopping to take a moment with a customer, before the noon-time parade came through and she stopped the wheel for good to look in on Neal’s progress.

As expected, he’d managed to replicate her pattern perfectly, and had pulled the yarn not too tight, nor left it too loose.

“Impressive,” she praised. “Well, I’m going to break for lunch. Watch the shop for me?”

Faltering, the shuttle slipped in his grip. “What?”

“Watch the shop for me. I’ll bring you back some lunch from the vendor’s court. Cash box is over there.”

Neal gaped at her like a fish. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure, of course.”

“Great. See you in oh…fifteen minutes?”

“Right.”

It was a risk, of course, though it wasn’t the first time she’d taken a risk on a teen that deserved it. There was something about him that told her that he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation, even though he might have been so inclined otherwise. Acts of trust, she’d found over her many years, brought returns of even like. There wasn’t much in the cashbox for him to make off with anyways, but she just had a feeling that he wouldn’t. A feeling that even if he had been living rough for longer than any young person should have been, he wouldn’t take advantage.

So she walked away, without a single glance back, though she could feel his eyes on her, and left it all to fate.

Twenty minutes later, he was still working the loom when she returned.

“You had three customers,” he said when she handed him the bowl of food she’d grabbed for him – a meat and veg casserole with potatoes on top. “Sold two shawls – the blue one and the sage one – and a pair of the grey socks.”

Mentally, she tabulated it, but made no move for the cash box. “Nice work. I guess I’ve got a salesman on my hands, hey?”

Blushing, he turned back to the loom. “I mean, it’s your work.”

“And that’s why I’ve sold more while I was away at lunch than I have at all this weekend. Right.”

“Right.”

The day passed in much the same way, some small talk filling the hours, and she learned nearly nothing about him in the process, save the fact that he was a skilled and dedicated worker, had a good sense of humor and a certain charm that made him a far better salesman than she was.

When the time came for the Faire to close its doors for the night, Judith watched amusedly as Neal blinked, surprised.

“Wow. I  _ am _ sorry. I guess I kind of lost track of time,” he said, slipping the shuttle between the threads. “I’ll let you close up then, unless I can do something to help?”

“I’m quite good, thanks, but you can’t leave just yet.”

He stopped, looked at her warily and she stuck out her hand, proffering him the cash. “Your cut.” Without words, he told her exactly what he was thinking, eyebrows raised and lips thin. “You’ve more than earned it. You’re a good salesman. Now,” she began before he could get out a word of protest. “I saw you walk past here yesterday too, so if you’re planning on staying in the area, I could use the help.”

“I really should – “ he began to say, but Judith stared him down, in impasse, like she did when her students tried to weasel out of things. She was an old pro, and even Neal, it seemed, wasn’t immune to her expectant expression. “I um…if you really need me?”

“I do.”

“Well, next weekend then, I guess?”

Judith stuck out her hand. “It’s a deal, Neal.”

For the first time all that day, he cracked a real smile. “Nice. That’s not the first time I’ve heard that one. Well, thanks, Ms. Judith. I’ll see you next weekend.”

“Until then!”

After that, Judith did a lot of thinking. Neal had swanned off that evening towards the exit, and part of her – a large part of her – was curious where it was he was going to spend the night. If he had somewhere safe, somewhere comfortable, some _ where _ at all, and that part of her wasn’t convinced. But following him out wouldn’t be a good idea. There would be time to pepper him with questions. At the very least, it was still summer and so he wouldn’t suffer from exposure if he didn’t. Maybe it was the way he talked about his father, maybe it was the fact that his pockets were thoroughly empty, or his thinned face. Maybe it was that she’d seen too many like him before.

So, all week, Judith worried.

Saturday morning, she opened the shop bright and early. She’d left word that she was expecting a young man – her new employee – and given them instructions to let him in if they saw him, since she hadn’t thought about it the weekend prior, and then could do nothing but wait.

It was possible, of course, that he wouldn’t show up. Possible that he’d split with the cash he’d earned that day, that she’d never see him again.

And then, it was also possible that he was perfectly fine and he’d show up and all her worrying might have been for nothing, all her busy bodying an intrusion on the life of a young man who had a happy, healthy home and life and didn’t  _ need _ her mollycoddling.

It was possible.

And then, he showed up wearing the same clothes as the week before, and she banished the hopeful thought.

He wasn’t dirty, nor had she noticed, did he seem unbathed, but the edges of his khaki shorts were frayed heavily near the knees, in a way that didn’t track with the current trend in young persons’ clothes. There was no artful tearing there, only true wear and tear.

If they had been different, she may have disregarded it, but they weren’t. Judith tried not to let the worry show, greeting him with a smile. There was, however, a new lanyard around his neck, with an ID proclaiming him her employee, which he held up with a mock-suspicious look.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

“Hmmm, can’t say as I do,” she replied, playing along as he took stock of the shop once more. “Your table runner is still on the loom if you’re looking to finish that.”

“Thanks, that’d be nice.”

A few hours later he finished the table runner, though he needed help with the ends and removing it was different than he’d experienced before. Then he’d returned to the wheel, spinning away at a skein of lovely yellow as she draped the table runner, batted it out of dust and began to fold it up.

“Aren’t you going to sell that?” he asked her quizzically, stopping his progress to spin and face her from where he sat on the wheel.

“Well, that’s up to you. It’s your work, after all.”

“And your materials and tools,” he threw back just as easily.

She frowned at his pushback. “Well fine then. I’ll buy it from you, and then I’ll sell it here in my shop.”

“Buy it from me?” Neal shook his head. “Judith, I  _ work _ for you.”

“Humour me, Neal.” It was a risk, she knew, forcing people like him to accept things that they didn’t deem appropriate, things that felt like they infringed on their pride, but she played her best ‘I could be a grandmother’ card and let a hand rest on his, and gave him her best, wide eyed imploring look. “Please.”

“Fine,” he gave in after a while. “Just this once.”

In lieu of a response, Judith patted his hand then returned to the loom, a spring in her step that most assuredly did  _ not _ befit an actual grandmother, at least, not in the way that people traditionally thought of grandmothers.

At noon, she gave him directions to the employee court, hidden back behind wooden walls erected to keep the general public out, and instructed him to bring back lunch. She didn’t wait long for him to return, seemingly more interested in talking to her than being bombarded by all the employees who might want to ask him questions of their own. Afterwards, he spun several more skeins of yarn with happy industry, and helped her close shop before heading out, once more, by himself.

On Sunday, she made up her mind to walk out with him. The seven o’clock sun was low behind the curtain of trees that hid away the sunset when he made to go.

“Wait! I’m all set here. Let’s walk out together,” she called, hustling a bit to catch up with him. The moment she did, he slowed his pace to match hers, and held out a hand to take one of her bags. In quiet but companionable silence they made their way through the sparsely populated streets of the Faire towards the employee exit. “Do you want a ride to your car?” Judith asked carefully lightly. “I’m only just around the corner here.”

Neal shrugged. “Nah, that’s okay. I’ll just make sure you get to yours alright.”

Pursing her lips, Judith began reformulating her plan, a race against time with how close the vehicle truly was, but nothing would come. With only niceties they loaded the car up together, and he held the door for her to get it. She’d pulled it shut and they’d said their goodbyes, and there he was, heading off into the later summer night, and-

Judith rolled down the window.

“Neal!”

He turned his head, looked back at her over his shoulder.

“Please tell me you have somewhere to sleep tonight.” It was bold, but she’d decided that with him there was no point in beating around the bush. Straight and direct was the way to catch him unawares, and indeed, he’d stopped dead in his tracks. “Somewhere that isn’t a…a Super 8, or outside, or something worse?”

He looked about on pause, his silhouette perfectly still, not quivering even an inch, and when half a minute passed – it felt like an  _ hour _ – Judith was really starting to feel like she’d messed up. What she’d said, more than insinuated, how  _ embarrassing _ , how utterly humiliating, especially since she was  _ sure _ he wouldn’t want anyone to know, or, or – why, if  _ she _ was him, she’d be positively mortified and-

“What’s it to you?” his unwavering baritone crumbled her thoughts around her.

“I have an extra bed in the RV.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, and, well, at that point, there was little more she could do to make things worse. “It would…I would feel better, I – oh, that’s just a terrible way to – “

“Judith.” She looked up and he was standing by the car window. Even in the dark, with his face shadowed, she could see the kindness in his expression. And, surprisingly, age. “Thank you. You’re very kind to me.”

“Does that mean you’ll accept?”

A sad smile crooked at the corners of his mouth. “We can talk more about the specifics. Like, rent, and how I’ll pay you.”

“It’s an  _ RV _ for goodness sake-“

“Judith,” his eyebrows were raised in amusement. “It’s okay. Unlock the door so I can get in, hey? And then we’ll talk about it.”

“Oh!” she clicked the button, trying to stop being flustered. “Oh, of course, I’m-“

“Judith, it’s okay. Really,” Neal said before rounding the front to get in the passenger seat. “We gotta head to the truck stop motel down the road before we go anywhere else. I gotta pick up my stuff.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Thankfully, he left her to her mortification in silence. She knew the motel that he was talking about, leaving her all the more grateful that, despite the scene she’d made about it, she’d actually bothered to ask. Once they arrived he’d gone into a first floor room to grab his things, before returning to the car, a single bag in hand, over which was flung a sturdier canvas jacket. He tossed it behind the seat and settled in, clicking his seatbelt and closing the door simultaneously.

“Don’t you need to check out?” she asked as she put the car in gear. There was a chuckle from beside her.

“Nope.”

Judith chose not to comment. There would be time for that later.

~

The weeks passed and they settled into a rhythm. At first, it was clear that Neal expected the arrangement to be a lot more temporary than she was intending. But together they worked on building up the shop’s merchandise, making scarves, socks, shawls, table runners, and spinning skeins for those who preferred to make their own items. Whatever she set him to, he was ready and willing to do, or learn to do, in the case of the socks, which he informed her hadn’t been something he was ever ‘responsible for’.

Slowly, she eked out a few more details; he was highly literate, reading anything and everything he could get his hands on, but that was the real extent of his formal education. Math skills were mostly, she could tell, adaptive, but good, nonetheless. He and his father weren’t on speaking terms and hadn’t been for many years. His mother was dead. He was alone.

Beyond that, he’d been scant with the specifics.

On one particular afternoon, while she was busy putting price tags on some recently completed items, she heard a frustrated groan and the slap of his latest paperback landing on the floor of the RV.

“How can you  _ stand _ this book?” he asked, rolling off the bed to his feet and joining her by hopping onto the counter. “McCandless is freaking  _ impossible _ . He’s living in la-la land! Thinking he can just go out and live in the wild like that without any prep, getting lucky, getting all stuck up about it. Thinking he can just go and eat the seeds of a plant because the root is safe! Why would he do that? It’s common sense that you can’t rely on that! Besides, he’s just an arrogant ass. I don’t get why you thought I’d want to read this.”

Judith smirked. “You’re invested, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, I guess, but he doesn’t make sense. Right?” Neal leaned his head back into the cabinet with thunk. “‘Oh, Carine, you’re my sister and I care about you and I hate our parents so I’m just going to, oh  _ fucking abandon you _ so that – ‘”

“Neal!”

“Sorry,  _ ‘freaking abandon you _ so that I can leave our parents behind, oh yeah, but no, I really do love you, but I’m not going to take you with me.’” He shook his head in disgust. “Really, he’s just a whole lot of romantic ideas about books whose authors’ didn’t know anything about wilderness survival either and have no rationality. He’s impossible and man, if he were alive, I’d give him something to really think about.”

Judith put down the skein. “Is that so? And what would you say?”

“I’d tell him that you don’t just abandon the people you love. You stick with them, or you take them with you, if you’ve really got to get out of a situation. You don’t leave them behind like a coward.”

Judith kept quiet as the final word, spat from his lips with utter contempt, rang out clear and echoing through the silence.

Very, very quietly, defeated, Neal swallowed, the words coming thick. “If he loved his sister, he wouldn’t have left her behind.”

“You know you can tell me anything, right? No judgement, no holier-than-thou, right?” she asked, looking up at him to see that he had his eyes shut tightly.

“What do you want to hear?” Neal asked her with a ferocity that she wasn’t sure was really directed at her at all. “That my pop was a good person once? Because he was, you know. He was  _ the best _ and he  _ loved _ me. That my mom left us before my dad did me? That it wasn’t all bad? Because it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Honestly, that’s worse. It’s so,  _ so _ much worse, Judith, when you had everything that was important, and  _ someone _ felt like  _ I _ needed more than he’d already given me, that  _ he _ wasn’t enough, that I needed  _ things _ to make me happy and safe and secure. Well  _ screw _ that! It made him someone he wasn’t and when I tried to get him to leave, he  _ abandoned _ me, too! McCandless can take his ‘happiness is in experiences and stuff it!  _ People _ matter.  _ People _ make experiences.  _ People _ make homes. Families that talk to each other, that listen and support one another and  _ do better _ .”

Judith waited, looked away as he did the same, blinking heavily.

“Sorry.” His voice was soft, wrecked from emotion.

“Don’t be.” She bit her lip, stood. Put a hand on his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have given you the book. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Nah." He shook his head, and finally looked at her straight – his eyes were red. “ ‘S not your fault. You didn’t know. I’m just…” Heavily, he sighed, hanging his head. “I messed up, I think. Or maybe not, I don’t know. All this bullshit with my dad, that’s…that’s old. I’ve been living with that forever. Whatever, I can deal. But I –“ Neal pressed his lips thin and looked away.

“What do you think you did?”

“There was this girl, back in Portland.” (His voice cracked on ‘girl’). “Emma. This guy showed up. Told me that he knew her, could get her to her family. That they’d been looking for her. Knew things that he couldn't have unless it was true.”

Even if he’d have stopped there, Judith would have been able to fill in the blanks easily enough.

“Shouldn’t she be with them? They love her! She wanted to find them! I was in the way.”

“And you left.”

“Yup. Stupid, huh?”

“Yes, it was.”  _ That _ made him look at her. “Did you ask what she thought?”

A huff. A guilty look. A shake of the head.

“Well, it’s never too late.”

“No, no, you’re wrong about that. I can’t be with her anymore. He wanted me out of the picture. He knows my dad. I’m not subjecting  _ her _ to  _ that. _ I can’t.” Immediately, tears beaded at his eyes again, and his face contorted in effort to keep them from falling. He let his head drop into his hands, hiding himself away.

“Oh Neal.” There was nothing to do, except rub his back slowly.

"Is it selfish?" He asked, voice muffled from where he was hiding his face. "To wish that I hadn't? To wish that I'd gone and got her and just booked it? Never told her anything? Took away the possibility of her ever finding her family? 'Cause that's what I think about, at night, every night, before I go to sleep."

Something told her that it  _ wasn't _ what he was thinking about when he woke up from the frequent nightmares he suffered, but she didn't press the issue. One thing at a time. 

"Well, I can't say it's not selfish, but it is human, and there's little anyone can do about that, right?" 

Whatever he muttered, she didn't catch it, but he leaned into her wearily. "I'm just so damn tired, Judith. I miss her so much. I thought maybe I'd finally found…" The sentence fell apart before it could get anywhere. "I'm as bad as my god-damned pop, aren't I? I convinced myself that I was doing the best thing for her, but it was me. It was about me. I got so scared that I convinced myself to leave her. Just like he left me." 

The prices of the puzzle still hadn't quite slotted into place, but more were finding their spots, if in different locations. 

"I love her. I love her so much. But not enough. Not enough to face my pop." 

"Well, you should have talked to her, yeah, you're not wrong about that. She deserves to make her own decisions. But," Judith let her hand stroke the back of his neck as she considered her words carefully. "If your father is bad news, it's probably  _ not _ the worst thing you could have done for either of you. It's not cowardly to put both of your...your physical and mental safety first." 

"Then why do I feel like such shit about it?" Before she could respond, he pulled away, throwing his head back again and running his hands through his hair. "No, don't tell me I know why. I know." 

"It's never too late -" 

"Nah, it is. I ruined it. I ruined the best thing I ever had and now I gotta live with it." He pushed off the counter to the floor. "I'll be back later. Gotta clear my head." 

And with that, he walked out the door, letting it swing shut behind him. 

~

When he came back later, he was quiet - not silent, however, occasionally giving short answers to her tentative questions, things like 'pass me the carder' and 'here you go', and then, eventually - 

"I'm sorry for earlier. I've got... I've got - " he laughed a little dejectedly. "Uh,  _ lots _ of baggage. If you hadn't gotten the picture. It's just kinda raw right now. Because of...of Emma."

He'd showed his hand, was waiting for her response, that much was clear, and she'd thankfully spent time thinking about it. 

With a knowing side glance, she gave a patient smile. "Do you want to tell me about her? 

Biting his lip, as if to keep a smile of his own from rising, Neal ducked his head, but lifted a thumbnail to scratch almost shyly at his lower lip. "Better. I can show you."

From his bag - it's mysterious depths further exposed - he pulled from within a ziplock bag of pencils and a ragged edged sketchbook, cover missing, and settled it in his lap, a fresh page at the top. Charcoal in hand, the pencil began to move across the page in an almost tender caress, forming the line of a smooth jaw, a soft chin. Sharp, bright eyes, the frame of a pair of glasses, and the swoop of a high pony, the slender angle of a graceful neck. 

He abandoned the pencil for the edge of his thumb, blending away, pulled another pencil, working in fine lines around her eyes, and beautiful thin-bow shaped lips quirked in a secret smile. 

"She hates her glasses," he said softly, brushing a finger across the pages, caressing her cheek, and for a moment, Judith felt like an intruder on a most intimate moment. "But I think she's beautiful no matter what."

A few more swipes of his pencil and he handed the pad off to her. The girl in the picture was certainly beautiful, if sharp; Judith got the idea that sharp was an important facet of her personality, that she was all edges, and only Neal saw her softer sides, brought them through in the most subtle indicators of emotion, that only someone who knew her well would know existed. 

"This is beautiful work, Neal," Judith said, though she hoped he would hear what she really meant:  _ she's beautiful. _

"You think?" 

"I know.”

Cheeks colouring a bit, Neal stared at the drawing a little longer. “Only gift my mother ever gave me was her talent, I guess.”

Oh, but the casual way he said it stung. Judith tried to keep the second hand grief from making her voice tremble, swallowing it away. “Have you thought about doing portraiture before?”

“What do you mean?”

“At the faire, or in parks. That sort of thing. Having someone sit for you, and pay you to draw them.”

He looked back at her skeptically. “People pay for that?”

“As quickly and beautifully as you work? Oh yes.” The enthusiastic nod she gave served to make him smile at least. “And there’d be no share for me in it. All your work. What do you think?”

Neal’s skepticism hadn’t quite dissipated, but his smile was larger. “I think I should maybe do some landscapes to sell, just in case no one is interested in waiting while I work.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Judith shook her head at the glint in his eye.

With a laugh, he turned the page on the sketchbook. “You don’t know the half of it.”

~

The summer flew by and soon, the school year was approaching, which normally meant closing up shop on the store, despite the fact that the faire would run another four weekends, and she’d have to return home. Instead, with an employee – and friend – in her corner, Judith left Neal with the RV to finish out the season on his own. He was more than capable of handling the shop by himself, and between the two of them, they’d managed to build up more than enough stock, the rest of which she’d sell on her etsy store through the rest of the year. That gave him the opportunity to continue his portraiture work, the success of which surprised him more than she thought it would. His landscapes were truly excellent as well; some were recognizable, and he’d indicated they were places he’d been, the Seattle Space Needle, Mount Rainer, Multnomah Falls and Crater Lake among them.

And then there were the fanciful ones. Ones that looked like the ‘Old World’ of Europe, very fitting and in line with the type of folks who frequented the faire. Judith could hardly believe how real they looked, from distant castles to sailing ships.

Neal could do and be so many things. Artist, craftsman, architect even. English teacher. And yet, there was so much he didn’t know. His patchwork education was all too telling of the drifting lifestyle he’d had no option but to adopt, so it seemed. But he was a smart young man and kind.

He deserved so much more.

At the end of September, the RV pulled down her drive, just as Judith trusted that it would. Her daughter was peeved, trusting the vehicle to a ‘complete stranger’, but she was off to college now and couldn’t cause a fuss. I cam

“Welcome back!” Judith said as she pulled Neal into a mothering hug, his smile equally as wide as her own. “Oh, I’ve missed you, Neal! It’s so good to see you.”

“Good to see you too.”

The evening was spent unloading the RV, which he’d kept tip-top and working out the expenditures versus income, making sure he received his full cut, despite the fact that he protested vehemently when she insisted on covering the gasoline.

In the end, he accepted all that she pushed on him, even the guest bedroom.

The best part, was of course the pancakes in the morning. His cooking was rudimentary, but good and pancakes appeared to be one of his specialties, which he whipped up from scratch by memory.

“I’m leaving, Judith,” he said as he set the plate down in front of her. “I’ve gotta find a place somewhere and…well I don’t think it’ll surprise you to know I’m not Canadian.” They shared a look at that. “I came here because I needed to get away, and you helped me more than you can possibly know, but I can’t stay here, much as I might like to keep working for you. I’ve gotta go back. I’m thinking, New York maybe.”

“New York?”

“Yeah, it’s a good place to just…rediscover myself, you know?”

Ah, the city. The place where all young people imagined such a thing was possible. “I understand, Neal.”

“I’ll keep in touch! I promise. Eventually, I imagine I’ll get a phone.”

“And you can put me down as a reference.”

“What?” He looked at her quizzically.

“For when you get a new job.”

Though he bit his lip a little, Neal nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate it. I, uh…can’t exactly get a job here in Canada, or I might have stuck around.”

“Please tell me you at least have a passport?” Her hopes weren’t high, and the cringing grimace on his face told her everything she needed to know. “Well, I’ll drive you down to the Boundary Waters, we’ll take the canoe and sneak you on board. It’s fairly easy to cross there. They don’t patrol that area too well, and I can let you off on the US side and go on back, no trouble. How about that?”

Wide eyed, but chuckling, Neal shook his head. “Judith, you really are something. I can’t ask you to do that for me.”

“You’re not asking.”

“I guess I can’t argue with that, can I?”

“Even if you did, you wouldn’t win.” Judith reached out a hand, laying it on his cheek. “You’re a good boy, Neal. I don’t need to know everything to know that much about you.”

And if there were tears in both of their eyes, neither of them felt the need to mention it.

~

Judith got a letter before she got a phone call, a few months after Neal’s seamless departure back to the US.

_ Dear Judith, _

_ _

_ Thank you so much for everything you did for me this past summer. I’m on my feet, and I have a side business which definitely has been more lucrative than I thought it would be. Selling art at parks has been my latest gig. It got me all the way to New York, and I’ve rationed well enough that I’ve even managed to find myself a place. The return address is on the envelope, obviously. _

_ Anyways, I’ve started looking for work, teaching some art classes – one for kids at this Boys and Girls club, and another that’s kind of like night school for adults who want to learn to draw. I’ve put you down as a reference a couple of times now. Hopefully will get a phone soon. Wish me luck! _

_ Yours, _

_ _

_ Neal Cassidy _

He would be alright, she was sure. With a good head on his shoulder and some cash in his pocket, Neal could do anything.

The first call she got, she  _ may _ have over hyped him.

Maybe.

Just a bit.


	3. In Grief

2013

He didn’t pick her up to walk her to the center after school for two weeks. Two weeks! Dad said that Uncle Neal and Tamara – _ugh, _Tamara, his _fiancée – _had taken a little trip and were due back ‘anytime’. Well, that had been a week ago, and her dad was _still_ saying the same thing. She’d gotten to talk to him on the phone when he called Mom on the third day he was gone, and he’d reassured her like always, that he’d ‘be home soon, love-bug’ (and boy, did THAT get to her, using the little kid nickname he _refused_ to drop.) That ‘something had come up’ that he ‘needed to take care of’, but that was the last they’d heard from him. 

And then, the weeks of Mom or Dad or Hadrien from just half a block over, walking her to the center where her teachers and the staff asked after her Uncle incessantly, turned into months. Months without a word. And then, before she knew it, she was celebrating her eighth birthday _without Uncle Neal_.

(That party ended in tears.)

It was shortly after that, at a year since the last day they’d heard from him that they held the ‘Celebration of Remembrance’. It wasn’t a funeral, Mom and Dad said. But Emmy’d been to those before, and well, they weren’t much different. She sat in the front row, kicking her legs, covered gently in black gossamer skirts, under the cool metal of the folding chair, hands under her legs, slumped in the seat, trying hard – so hard – not to cry again.

Three weeks prior, she’d gotten up to get a drink of water and heard her parents talking. She’d never been particularly good at minding her own business, or so she’d been told, and all, so she’d crept up quietly beside the kitchen door and sat with her back to the wall as she listened to her dad say that he was intending to formally have ‘Neal’ declared dead.

_“There’s been nothing, baby. Nothing on his cards, no movement in the bank, no phone activity that dates after the first month he was gone. We hired three separate people to look. Nothing. And nothing on Tamara either. They’re not ghosts, Becca, they’re not gone, they’re dead. They’re just dead, baby. I know it. You know it. The apartment had been broken into, there was blood in the entryway of the building…it’s a bad scene, and more than enough evidence to support the passage of death in absentia.” _

_“But on the phone… he didn’t sound-“_

_“Baby-“_

_“He would have SAID SOMETHING!” _

Her mom had slammed her hand down on the counter hard, then, and the room had grown very, very silent, and Emmy’d felt hot tears sliding down her cheeks. Even when her parents started to talk again, she didn’t listen, standing up silently and trudging back to her room, hand held clasped over her mouth to keep any sobs from escaping. In her bedroom, she’d pulled the photo album off her shelf, tugging the picture she’d taken with Uncle Neal at the year before’s birthday party and then crawled back into bed, holding to picture out in front of her.

He looked so happy, there, smiling all the way to his crinkly eye wrinkles as he looked down at her, holding her brand new guitar, far too big for her – and her parents had complained, too expensive – but she’d loved him for it, begged him to play it. Not that he knew how, he said, but he did sing for her, something he did _not_ usually do for a crowd of people.

That night, Emmy pressed the photo to her chest, curled into a ball and cried herself to sleep.

The rest of the nights after that had been no different.

They’d booked a hall in the community center where he’d given some adult art lessons a years prior. The room was filling up – not that it was large, per say, he hadn’t had many really close friends, and the only people he’d considered family was them – the Thompsons. Even their Christmas Cards had included him. Emmy couldn’t remember a year when they didn’t, though Mom said that there had been a time when he’d refused to join them.

Privately, Emmy was glad she couldn’t remember a time like that.

Noise started to broil into a low rumble in the room as people filed into place. It wasn’t exactly formal, even though Mom had dressed her like it was, in the dress she’d already worn for several funerals prior. There wasn’t a person in the place not wearing some shade of black, even if black sometimes meant a tee shirt and extremely dark jeans, but Uncle Neal hadn’t really worked in all the nicest circles, aside from Dad’s firm. Their coworkers arrived in much the same nice clothes, but the folks from the BGC and some that Emmy didn’t know weren’t all dressed up fancy-like. Most of them were unfamiliar to her, even the ones she knew were Dad and Uncle Neal’s coworkers.

Some of Mom’s friends came too, and the family, of course, but the rest…well, Emmy guessed that if they had to care enough about someone to come to a not-funeral, Uncle Neal was the best choice.

She still didn’t quite understand what happened. They didn’t know why he’d left, they didn’t know why he’d never come home. Honestly, Emmy considered to herself, she didn’t really care. All she wanted – _all_ she would _ever_ want _ever again_, as she’d wished, blowing out her birthday candles, imagining as she squeezed her eyes shut, that, instead of a pile of presents, he was there, right across from her, and when she opened her eyes, he’d be smiling back at her – was for him to be back, or to never have left at all, something _anything_ other than what her Mom and Dad had given into.

They only _thought_ he was dead, after all. But that would be getting her hopes up, and Uncle Neal was far from the only person who have told her never to do _that._

Beneath her thighs, Emmy’s fingers were growing numb. Her dad was standing, straightening his black tie, clearing his throat.

“Neal Cassidy was my brother…“

_“Emmy?_”

His voice was so easy to hear, clear as a bell in her ears. Just like on her birthday, she squeezed her eyes shut.

_“Emmy? What’s wrong, Emmy?”_

“I miss you,” she muttered under her breath, softly, so only she could hear. Like a secret in her diary.

_“Is that all?” _He would smile, knowingly, as though he could read her mind.

“No.”

_“Whatcha worrying about, love-bug?”_

“That I’ll never see you again. That you’re really dead.”

_“Well, what do we do when we’re worried?” _

“Draw. Or talk.”

_“That’s right, kiddo. Whenever I need to deal with something, I draw my emotions out, and that helps me feel better. Like I’ve made it concrete, remember?” _

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Emmy? Honey?”

Startled from her daydream, Emmy met her Mom’s concerned face. A soothing arm came around her shoulder, rubbing half-heartedly, but she only shook her head by way of response turning away again, the vision gone.

“ – a crime that he is lost to us. He changed the course of so many of our fates, led us down new, better paths, never taking a moment for himself. I always wanted more for him than what he seemed willing to take for himself. When I would ask, he’d give me very little; no blood family of his own, at least, none he’d speak about, but the people in this room, each and every one of them, he cared about dearly and desperately, and I know that if he could be, he would be here right now with all of – “

It was easier not to listen, ultimately. Emmy had discovered that at Grammy’s funeral, so instead she let her thoughts drift off into the past, for, even though it was easier not to listen, it was impossible to think of anything other than _him_. And really, she didn’t want to. She remembered when she first realized that she’d forgotten what Grammy smelled like, how she’d cried and cried and how Mom had held her tight, told her to think about her a little bit every day, so that she wouldn’t forget, but not to be sad, because better things were on the horizon. Grammy had been old, it was her time.

Well, it was small consolation, because it _hadn’t_ been Uncle Neal’s time. Not by a long shot. Not at all.

It wasn’t _fair!_ It felt insulting, sitting there, talking about what a good life he’d led when he should still be leading it! Emmy wanted to spring out of her seat, stomp from the room in a huff dramatically, turn her back to her Dad, deny it. Deny everything. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to _hit_ something. It nestled like a thorny ball of vines all tousled up inside her.

And then, she heard her name.

“ – my daughter, has asked to play a song on her guitar.”

Everything rushed away, like water down a drain, and she felt light headed.

“Go on, Emmy.” She felt her mom’s hand on her shoulder.

The guitar – her guitar from Uncle Neal - was in her dad’s outstretched hand. Swallowing hard, she did stand, though it wasn’t quick, or angry, and made her way to the front, where she took the guitar in her hands. She wasn’t very good yet, but she knew how to sit, how to hold the unwieldy instrument, how to place her finger, even though they weren’t long enough all of the time. She could play something. She’d planned on it, after all.

But she wouldn’t sing.

_“Why don’t you want to sing, baby?” _her dad had asked. _“You have a lovely voice. Uncle Neal would’ve loved to hear-“_

_“No, dad. Uncle Neal would have sung while I played. I can’t sing. That’s his part.”_

So she strummed the guitar, working out the chords more slowly that she was genuinely capable of doing, stumbling once, twice, and then, looking up at the crowd through the haze of her unshed tears, saw something different.

He was there, in front of her, not tangible, but visible, that half quirked smile on his lips, his kind eyes sad, but encouraging and then, clear as a bell, she could hear him singing along with her strum.

_“If your snow falls in June, and leaves no excuses for summer…if your sky fades from blue, and steals your light of day…share with me your wounds, and open up your window to wander…there’s a helpless tune, that I can help you sing…”_

He’d never had the nicest of singing voices, rugged and gruff, but warm and comforting like a good hug in the fall, his scratchy scruff and chapped lips and wind burnt cheeks and all. And she loved him. She loved him so completely, and she didn’t falter and her fingers didn’t slip and she played the song through, bolstered by his accompaniment, even if it was only for her benefit.

Just, extra especially for her.

There was clapping when it was over; not the usual sort, rather, fairly subdued, as sad, almost pathetic sort of applause. But it felt right. It felt as right as the fact that the sky was grey and the weather was chillier than was seasonable and that it had drizzled lightly on their way their that day.

Just like it were a real funeral.

And Emmy hated it all.

She stood, made a face at the crowd, something between a quivering lip and a hearty try at a smile that _must_ have come off as ridiculous and then briskly walked back to her seat with the guitar, settling it in front of her as she sat, her hand still around it’s neck, as if she was going to throttle it, but held it gently instead, delicately, like the bones of her dead Uncle.

Her _dead_ Uncle.

Her father sat, and someone else stood to talk, and Emmy stifled her sobs behind her hand.

The next day, at school, she didn’t talk to anyone. Not Andrea, when she smiled and said hello and started chattering about her new kitten, not Ms. Farr, when she greeted the class as usual, not Dillon, when he shyly told her that he liked her notebook cover, on which she had doodled a t-rex. Not anyone. She couldn’t bring herself to, she could make a single sound. It seemed like the world was over in accepting the truth. In accepting that he was just _gone _that he was _dead _and that it was _forever. _The hours of the day passed by without agonizing on, and before Emmy knew it, the class was pulling out their recorders and maracas and the hand drums and it was all too much. Emmy stood, simply, still for a moment in the chaos of the classroom, before turning round and out the door.

It was in the library that her teacher eventually found her, sitting on the floor in the dark beside one of the white painted shelves, clutching to her chest the Trumpet of the Swan.

Ms. Farr knelt down in front of her, and then, after a moment, seemed to change her mind and plopped down on the ground instead.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” she asked in a soft voice. Ms. Farr was young and beautiful, and once, Emmy remembered, she’d told Uncle Neal that he should take her on a date. He’d only laughed, reminding her that he was engaged. _“So what?”_ Emmy remembered telling him. She’d never kept her dislike of Tamara a secret, and his look had only darkened, before telling her that Tamara was important to him, and that she would need to accept it someday.

Emmy shook her head, pulling the book closer to her; there were no more sobs to be had.

“Is this about your Uncle?” Sharply, she looked up at her teacher, who was looking on with an empathetic gaze. “You dad told me that you might be upset today. He sounds like a really nice guy. A really special sort of person. I’d love to hear about him.”

Emmy took a breath, but nothing came out, so she closed her lips, pressing them lightly together.

“Did he like to read?”

A nod.

“What book to you have there?”

Reluctantly, Emmy made to hold it forward, but stopped at the unbearable pain of relinquishing it. “The Trumpet of the Swan,” she whispered, quietly as a mouse.

“It’s a good one, isn’t it. Did your Uncle read that book to you?”

Another nod.

“Well, if you don’t want to come to music class, I’m sure that Mr. Lowe wouldn’t mind if you sat in his office with your book for a bit. How about that?”

Sniffling, Emmy nodded again.

Together they stood, Ms. Farr leading her to Mr. Lowe’s office. She explained, Emmy was sure, but she wasn’t listening, climbing into the extra chair with her book and opening it to that first, unbearably familiar page. She’d read the book with her parents of course, many a time, but it was her Uncle who had bought it for her, who had read the first chapter aloud that first time, and so, it was his voice she heard in her head whenever she read those particular words.

_“Walking back to camp through the swamp, Sam wondered whether to tell his father what he had seen. ‘I know one thing,’ he said to himself. ‘I'm going back to that little pond again tomorrow. And I'd like to go alone. If I tell my father what I saw today, he will want to go with me. I'm not sure that's a very good idea.’"_

She remembered too, how he’d said the word father, how his tone was choked, how he’d kept speaking anyways, how his voice had been a low rumble, gentle in the soft light of her evening bedroom.

Eventually, she lost herself in the story, the only thing that drew her forth the bell that rung at the end of the day. Mr. Lowe smiled at her, asking her if she’d like to check out the book, but she still wasn’t ready to talk, so she shook her head, smiled just a little by way of thanks and then ducked out of his office to put the book back. Her own copy was at home, and the sound of his voice, the precious memory of that night was fresh in her mind and so, it was okay to put the book down, even if it still hurt.

It was her Mom who picked her up in the end, waiting by the front door of the school.

“How was school?”

A shrug.

Her mom sighed, and Emmy could tell where it was going. What she was about to say. Except, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything at all, instead, running a hand over her hair and bending in to kiss the crown of her head.

“Let’s go home, baby,” she said, her voice wavering. “I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry.”

Emmy pressed herself into her Mom’s side and together they walked home in quiet silence, a bubble of their own, surrounded by the bustle and hubbub, the complete ignorance with which the world kept turning on and on, even though her Uncle was no longer in it.

How was it possible that life could continue? How was it possible? How could the days continue to pass?

But her mom lived without Grammy. And she lived without Grammy.

So she’d learn, someday, how to go on without her Uncle, too.

“I don’t want to, Mommy!” Emmy finally broke, he words coming out a wretched sob. “I don’t want to not miss him, Mommy!”

“Oh, sweetie, oh, my dear.” They stopped, and her mother dropped to her knees on the sidewalk, pulling her in close as they _finally_ cried together for what they had lost.


End file.
